Real

Down to deep study, Work, difficultly set as a medium, Down to windblown streets, The sweet smells of taboo smoke filling the imaginations of lost boys. Down to levels which difficultly struggles to walk, One step, two. Up to baby blue skies leaking with repetitive nine to five workers, Filling pools of captivity, Down to political square screens of rainbow colours, Minds washed in circular motion. Down to the red rooms, where anger runs through blacked out tranquil meadows, blind, only connecting dots which seem true. Up to swooned men lying on hollow laid floors, Falling through dead bolted vaults of boredom and five fingered machines, Down to ear piercing shouts, Bleeding at the ears, green is the colour which runs out. Envy the tough beastly mistress, whipped through management and malice, Down through lone degrading city strolls, Grey paving, seeing through building only from seated walls, Up to where dolefulness, doubtfulness wallows in the seven seas of whirlpools, Black and white, colour blind, inattentive slugs moving with times fifteen minutes apart, Taken with only a pinch of salt.